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He loves to wake the savage boar
In his dark haunt on Greta's shore,
And loves, against the deer so dun,
To draw the shaft or lift the gun;
Yet more he loves, in autumn prime,
The hazel's spreading boughs to climb,
And down its clustered stores to hail,
Where young Matilda holds her veil.
And she, whose veil receives the shower,
Is altered too, and knows her power ;
Assumes a monitress's pride
Her Redmond's dangerous sports to chide ;
Yet listens still to hear him tell
How the grim wild boar fought and fell;
How at his fall the bugle rung,
Till rock and greenwood answer flung;
Then blesses her that man can find
A pastime of such savage kind!

But Redmond knew to weave his tale
So well with praise of wood and dale,
And knew so well each point to trace,
Gives living interest to the chase,*
And knew so well o'er all to throw
His spirit's wild, romantic glow,
That, while she blamed, and while she feared,
She loved each venturous tale she heard.
Oft, too, when drifted snow and rain
To bower † and hall their steps restrain,
Together they explored the page
Of glowing bard or gifted sage;

* In these four lines there occur two instances of those ellipses, or omis. sions, which are tolerated in poetry. After knew, in the first line, how should be added, to complete the sense; and that, at the end of the third. But though allowed, these ellipses should be sparingly introduced ; and correct writers do not often use them. ť Bower, chamber, or room.

Oft, placed the evening fire beside,
The minstrel art alternate tried,
While gladsome harp and lovely lay
Bade winter night fit fast away.

L. — THE CONVERTED MISER.

FROM THE FRENCH.

ONCE, in the city of Paris, a party of ladies and gentlemen were discussing the question whether it was possible to overcome a defect, or cure a fault, implanted by nature. One of the ladies maintained the negative with great spirit, saying, “ We remain what we were made at first — cold or ardent, grave or gay. Who ever saw an aspiring man cured of his ambition, or a converted miser?”

“ You ask for a converted miser,” said a gentleman who was present; “ there is one among us at this moment, and I am he.” The speaker was a popular dramatic author, noted for his generosity. “ What! you a miser?” said some of those who heard him ; nonsense! it is impossible.” “Not so," answered he calmly; “I speak but the truth. I was a miser, though now thoroughly cured, I hope.” “And what cured you," returned one of the auditors. “ Listen, and I will tell you,” answered he; “it was an infant's tear.” All present crowded round him immediately, and heard from his lips the following story.

“ The incidents I am about to relate occurred many years ago. I had just brought out a very successful play. I received two letters at the same time- one from the manager of the Marseilles theatre, informing me that he was anxious to bring out my new piece there, but wished me to be present, to superintend the arrangements, offering me any terms I would name.

The other was also from Marseilles, and was in these terms: "Sir, the wife and daughter of your brother are

.

dying of want. Some hundreds of francs * would save them; and I pray you to come to them, and make provision for their urgent needs. This letter was signed by Dr. Lambert, of Marseilles.

“My brother was a sailor, and had been lost at sea. He had married a good and pretty girl, whom he tenderly loved ; but I had strongly opposed the match because she was poor. I had even written to him, before his marriage, advising him to break off the connection. My sister-in-law was a woman of spirit, and was justly indignant at my conduct. When she lost her husband, and became very poor, she was naturally reluctant to apply to me for aid. But the thought of her child's being thrown helpless upon the world made her at length disclose her connection with me to the benevolent medical man who attended her. The result was the letter I have alluded to.

“I accepted the manager's offer, and went to Marseilles. The first person I saw there was the physician who had written to me. He was waiting for me at the principal hotel. He thanked me warmly for coming so quickly in reply to his letter. My heart smote me, but I could not tell him that it was the manager's letter, and not his, that had brought me. But instead of going straight to the theatre, as I had intended, I walked with the doctor to my sister-in-law's.

“I found her in a dark and comfortless room. Near the bed of the poor sufferer stood an object which drew my

first attention. This was her little girl, with large black eyes, beautiful curling locks, and a countenance finely formed and intelligent, though wearing a grave and pensive expression. How interesting she seemed to me!

I felt, at first, as if I could have taken her fondly to my arms; but sordid avarice suddenly interposed, and struck me with the thought that, if I allowed myself to be moved, I must burden myself with new and heavy duties, which might press on me for life. I involuntarily shrank back at this base sug

*Franc, a silver coin worth about nineteen cents.

gestion of my hard heart. The physician saw the movement, and, good man as he was, he ascribed it to pity. The sight of this misery touches you,' said he ; 'but the physician must look closely into the ills which he would cure. It is

you

who must be the physician here. Come nigh your poor relative.'

“When my sister-in-law noticed my approach, she made an effort to raise herself. There was upon her faded countenance a mixture of sadness and pride, which told me plainly it had cost her much to apply to me. She descended to no humiliating entreaty, but, raising her finger, which trembled with weakness and emotion, she pointed to her little girl, and said, in low, touching tones, "See that sweet angel, that gift of Heaven! She will soon have no mother!'"

LI. — THE SAME SUBJECT, CONCLUDED.

me.

“EQUALLY true and disgraceful it is that this appeal did not counteract or wipe away the miserly fears which had beset

I answered, even in cold tones, “Why entertain such fears? You are young; you have a good physician ; you need not despair.' Any other man would have added, “You have a brother-in-law, too, who will give you every comfort in his power. I added no such words. My only thought was how to escape from the threatened burden in the easiest manner.

“ Meanwhile the little girl had been gazing on me with eyes which seemed to indicate that even she felt the want of cordiality in the relative who had come to her mother's side. At length, while I stood in my uneasy uncertainty, she came close to me, and said, “Sit down upon the bed, for you are too tall to let me kiss you if you stand.' I sat down, and the child climbed upon my knee. Her mother closed her eyes, and lifted up her hands, as if praying in aid of the child's possible influence.

“ Alas ! feeling that my danger increased, I but hardened

me.

my heart the more, and clung more closely to the idol that I worshipped. My brow even gathered into a frown as I gazed upon the child. She, however, was not deterred from kissing «Will

you
be

my father ?' said she : 'I shall love you well. How like you are to bim! He was good, very good: are you good also ?' The touching grace of this infantile appeal cannot be described. I felt its influence, and it moved me— to what? - to untwine the arms of the child rudely from

my neck, and set her down upon the floor. “ The effect of this repulse upon her was striking and instantaneous. She cast upon me a glance in which surprise, disappointment, and fear were mingled, and a tear, gathering in her beautiful eye, rolled slowly down her cheek. Her silent sorrow did what her endearments had utterly failed to do. A sudden revolution took place in my feelings. As by an enchanter's wand, the hateful aspect of my avarice and self-love was revealed to me. I shuddered at the sight, and, yielding to the better feeling awakened, I hastily took up the child, and exclaimed, laying my hand upon her head, "Before Heaven and thy mother, I promise to be a father to thee, and never was child more tenderly cherished than I will cherish thee!!

“Ah, had you seen the mother when these words were uttered! Such an excitement was produced, that the physician and myself were alarmed for her life. But joy seldom kills. "Brother! brother !' murmured she, as soon as she was able to speak, “I had done you wrong.' It may be guessed that such a confession could only give me pain. I hastened to check the flow of grateful feeling which I did not deserve, by addressing myself to the medical man on the subject of my sister-in-law's removal to a better dwelling. He readily undertook to look out for such a place, which I could not well do, being a stranger in Marseilles.

“ For three months after that period, I occupied a delightful cottage near Marseilles, with my sister-in-law and her child. To the former these months were months of unalloyed peace,

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